


As We Grow

by Northisnotup



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adoption, Bondage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grudges, Lingerie, M/M, PTA Mom's, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 10:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16514369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northisnotup/pseuds/Northisnotup
Summary: It's never a good sign, when your son calls in the middle of the night.





	As We Grow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theslap (bigspoonnoya)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigspoonnoya/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the other way to someday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780738) by [theslap (bigspoonnoya)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigspoonnoya/pseuds/theslap). 



> Title from Mushaboom, by Fiest 
> 
> \- For A
> 
> I hope you had a lovely birthday, I hope you enjoy this and I hope I didn't mangle Mr. Connor too badly!

~Two Years Later~

“Mm,” Hank hums, only exaggerating slightly as he sucks gently at the soft pink-beige mesh that covers Connor’s beautiful, half-hard cock. He strains forward, against the ties holding him to the bed frame, intentionally making it bump against the wall to hear the gasp Connor makes. 

Because Connor likes it, that atmospheric shit. Hearing the bed frame rattle as Hank struggles to stay where Connor put him. The rustle of the sheets beneath them, the bedroom door open because the house is empty but for the two of them. Connor likes all of that, and Hank loves giving Connor things he likes. It’s why they have silk ties ordered specifically for their new bed frame. It’s why their closet is organized and why Connor has a locked drawer in their shared, very organized closet full of beautiful things — sweet lace and delicate mesh held together with strong straps and small metal rings. 

Connor’s left knee nudges his armpit, his hips shifting impatiently in the air and Hank drops his mouth open further to get back with the program. His dick twitches hard against Hank’s tongue, forcing the pretty panties to bulge out as he gets harder and harder. It makes Hank want to grin, to tease him about still wearing the underwear that comes with the lingerie set instead of buying some made for people with cocks, but he’s not so rude as to try and talk with his mouth full. 

Plus, he already knows what Connor would say.

‘Then they wouldn’t match,’ and he’d frown minutely, like he doesn’t want to broadcast how much the thought of wearing non-matching lingerie bothers him.

God, he’s so fucking good. 

A glance upwards confirms what Hank suspected, Connor’s got his eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip sucked between his teeth and one hand fisted in his own hair. His ring keeps clicking against the headboard and fuck, that’s something isn’t it. 

A couple more teasing sucks and Connor’s dick’s hard enough to bow the panties out. To fight the elastic until it raises off Connor’s skin and Hank breaks. He surges forward but is brought to a halt a bare inch from burying his face in the line of Connor’s pubes by the soft bite of silk that grips his wrists. “Okay, Con. If you don’t want me to rip these things with my teeth, you gotta get ‘em out of the way. Now.”

Connor’s abs clench and his dick twitches temptingly hard against the lace and elastic prison in front of Hank’s waiting mouth. His hand comes away from it’s death grip on the headboard to cup Hank’s chin, carding softly through the hair and rubbing his thumb hard against his slick lower lip. “Would you like me to fuck your face?”

Hank sucks in air desperately, face hot and probably ruddy as shit. It’s not new anymore, Connor swearing in bed, but it still gets under his skin in the best of ways. (In too many ways, really. Home Hardware is not the place to be chubbing up just because your partner is mad the industrial size bottles of elmer's glue are sold out.)

“Yeah, please.” He wheezes out, not even bothering to pretend he isn’t rock-hard and gagging for it. 

Connor sways a little when he lets go of the headboard completely, his knees finding old worn patches in the memory foam of Hank’s mattress and having to recenter his weight so as not to crush Hank underneath him. The position — Hank laying propped against some pillows, tied to the headboard and Connor straddling him — is great for face-fucking. Hank’s old mattress, is not. Connor scowls for a second before he relaxes again and busies himself with pushing the crotch of his panties to the side. But Hank is more than well aware they are going to have, yet another, conversation about replacing the furniture soon.

In apology, and because he knows how it’ll look, Hank lets his mouth hang open as wide as it will go, tongue out and wordlessly begging for Connor to rub his leaking tip against it. The way Connor licks his lips and gasps softly in response will never not be hot. Connor slides the hand not wrapped tight around the base of his erection into Hank’s hair, cupping the back of his head and urging him to crane his neck forward rather than making a fist. Hank’s never minded a bit of hair pulling, but of the two of them Connor is definitely the one who likes it best. 

The first touch of his tongue along Connor’s glans pushes a soft, restrained groan from Connor’s lips. Using Hank’s head as an anchor he thrusts forward again, and this time Hank flexes his tongue against the veined underside of Connor’s dick. No matter how hot it would be for him to let Connor go to town and use him, ride him hard and put him away wet, Connor’s always preferred Hank as an active participant.

With no need to be quiet Connor doesn’t try and restrain his noises, he gasps and grunts openly with each thrust into Hank’s waiting mouth. Trusting Hank to keep up the suction, Connor releases his dick to curl his left hand back into Hank’s beard, cupping his chin and the back of his head all at once to help feed his cock, inch by delicious fucking inch down Hank’s throat. 

Hank pulls hard against the ties keeping him spread out. Not too hard, though. It’s part of the game.

Well, it’s partly a game.

Mostly, it’s that Connor got fed up telling Hank to keep his hands away and Hank being unable to do it without help. He loses himself in the heat of the moment, in wanting Connor so damn bad he can’t help but pull him close. Like now. This time when the headboard clatters against the wall, Hank’s biceps straining to break free, it’s not for show. It’s Hank wanting to grab Connor’s hips, his ass, his thighs, anywhere and pull him in, suck him down and swallow around him until he comes.

“Oh, yes.” Connor whispers, broken, the first time he allows Hank down far enough his nose pushes into the wiry base of dark curls that frame Connor’s gorgeous cock. 

Hank tightens his throat, swallowing once, twice —

And then Connor pulls back, all the way out of Hank’s mouth and hands leaving Hank’s hair until they’re only connected by a thin string of drool.

“Do you hear that?”

No. Fuck no.

Hank hears nothing, and he isn’t going to hear anything. Because like hell is his amazing, kinky sex with his amazing fiancé, on his day off, when his kid is safely out of the house, going to be interrupted by a goddamn phone call.

“No.” He says, like a liar — a liar who wants to get laid.

Connor frowns, neatly dismounting Hank and tucking his still-wet cock away as he does. His knee’s don’t even creak after being bent that long, lucky son of a bitch.

“Connor, babe, no, come on. It’s probably nothing.” Hank begs, loud and unashamed. 

“It’s Cole’s ringtone.” Connor points out, sounding annoyed and fuck, it is too.

Hank allows himself a bare moment of feeling like a shitty dad and partner all at once before he tugs the slip knots holding him down and heaves himself off of the bed and after Connor. Out of their bedroom, down the hall, and past the top of the stairs where Connor pushed his jeans down his hips. Through the living room, where Connor untucked and unbuttoned his shirt and finally to the door where Connor first attacked him and therefore the final resting place of his jacket, cell phone securely in it’s left hand pocket.

Cole has a cell phone because Connor thought he should have one, just in case, and Hank thought he was too young for something that’s basically a personal computer. 

After a week of adult, diplomatic discussions, which dissolved into bickering, which then lead to a short snapped fight and a long make-up session — Cole got Hank’s old phone for Christmas and he immediately roped them both into helping him set it up. He customized every inch of the phone, from his background (Sumo) to the way his icons look (Dog bones) and then decided that Hank needed to customize his phone as well.

They spent three hours on the living room couch Christmas day, Cole picking out personalized ringers for all three of them so they would always know who was calling.

The jaunty tone is from some videogame Cole loves, something with a lot of weird futuristic guns, but it’s a co-op game and that teaches valuable life skills, like working with people toward a common goal. Or so Connor says, Hank can’t really wave a finger at Cole’s entertainment choices — Doom came out when he was thirty okay, give him a fucking break.

“Hey, everything okay?” Hank tries his best to sound confident and happy to hear from Cole. Because he is, but also, Cole is calling at nearly midnight from a sleepover.

Clearly he’s not going to be okay.

Beside him, Connor picks up the robe he wore at the beginning of the night and wraps it around himself, belting it tight. His white knuckled grip the only sign of outward distress he gives.

“Hi dad. I don’t want to sleep over anymore, can I come home?” Cole doesn’t sound like he’s been crying or even as if he’s that upset, but his tone sets off every parental warning bell Hank has. 

“Of course you can. Did something happen?”

“No. I just want to come home.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Um, dad?” 

Cole hesitates, and Hank jumps. “Yeah, bug?”

Cole doesn’t always let him get away with the nickname anymore, just like he doesn’t always let himself be tucked in, or the myriad of other small affections he allowed, and even sought out when he was younger.

“Can Connor come get me?”

Shit.

Hank blinks, stunned stupid for a second.

Cole loves Connor, that’s not even a question. They’ve been a family for two years. It’s not out of the ordinary for Cole to seek Connor out instead of Hank for things like, his homework or to watch movies with or to go to the library.

But for things like this, like nightmares and feelings, Hank kind of still thought he was first on the list. “Yeah, of course he can, bug. Connor will be there to get you right away.”

He glances up as he says this and Hank can see his own shock reflected on Connor’s face before Connor nods tightly and jogs upstairs.

“You want me to stay on the phone with you until he gets there?”

“No, that’s okay. Thanks dad. Love you.” Cole hangs up just as Connor comes back down the stairs, having clearly grabbed whatever was closest — baggy sweatpants, a t-shirt that looks like it might be Hank’s with how loose it is and a zip up hoodie.

“You know where you’re going?” He asks, desperate not to feel useless.

Connor nods, tightly, face blank. “Yes.”

He kisses Hank goodbye quickly before he’s out the door.

And then it hits Hank, like a punch to the gut. 

It’s Emma Phillips birthday sleepover.

“Fuck.”

\---------

Connor takes Hank’s car, mostly because Hank blocked him in the driveway but also because Hank’s SUV is newer and more fuel efficient than his car.

If that means that Connor has to listen to jazz on the way to pick Cole up, it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make. In lieu of having a hand free to fidget with, Connor taps his ring against the steering wheel.

After the third screaming sax solo with no obvious rhyme or reason for the scales played, Connor mutes the radio. It's not that he doesn't 'get' jazz, as Hank likes to accuse him of whenever they ride together. Markus explained it better, likening it to certain 'energies' that resonated with one person over the other. Really, it's the randomness that Connor isn't a fan of. He likes the balance of classical and the flow of newer, popular music. The hooks and easy way they talk about emotions. Hank calls those songs 'noise.' It's just another area where they agree to disagree.

He takes a deep breath in through his nose, fills his lungs for five full seconds before slowly blowing it out through his mouth. He’s jittery with nerves, Cole’s lack of details building up in his mind to a thousand different possible reasons and outcomes, no matter how unlikely or ridiculous.

Hank calls it a side effect of being a parent.

Being a parent. Parental figure, that is, is not what Connor had expected. He has new respect for the clingy parents, now. The ones who clog his doorway several times over the course of the year, wanting to make sure their child is _really_ fine, _really_ doing well, settling in, etc. Professionalism keeps him from outright asking Cole’s new teacher how he’s doing, but Ms. Kara is kind. Her daughter, Alice, is in Connor’s class and while they don’t spend every lunch hour exchanging information, Connor can appreciate having someone who understands his position.

The first time Cole fell off a playground and knocked one of his own teeth out, Connor felt like he was watching it outside of his own body. It was last November, leaves littering the ground the the sky threatening snow. Cole wore mittens and was attempting to use the metal ladder that arched from the ground to the third level of the structure.

Connor would have known what to do, had it been one of his kids, had it been on the school’s jungle gym.

But just before he slipped, Cole called out — “Hey dads! Watch this!”

Cole doesn’t call him ‘dad’ all the time.

It still steals Connor’s breath away when he does. 

Nothing bad happened that day. Nothing really bad. Cole fell a couple feet, hit the ground that was padded with wood chips layered over springy pellets of recycled tires. His wide grin was a little bloody when he held up the tooth he managed not to swallow. “Dad! Look! Tooth-fairy money!”

At the next red light, Connor takes a second to resituate both the seatbelt and the collar of his t-shirt. In his haste, he must have grabbed them from Hank’s pile, folded to be put away in the morning, rather than his own. The shirt is soft, but stretched out and leaves the skin of his collarbone exposed to the irritating rub of the seatbelt. Connor hasn’t taken his eyes off the road to check, but he is fairly certain that if not for the zipped up sweater, which he knows for a fact is Hank’s and grabbed on purpose, his bra strap would also be revealed by the sloping collar of the too-big shirt.

Nervousness curls in his gut once again.

Since his former students, Cole’s group, ‘graduated’ to the third grade, he hasn’t had any personal contact with Emma or Mrs. Phillips. There’s been no reason to.

Which is not to say he hasn’t been stung by her. 

As a paying member of not only their local PTA, but also the Michigan state PTA and national PTA, Mrs. Phillips has raised several parent’s concerns about Connor, specifically. There has been push back to her opinions and ideals, but the fact remains that Connor has had more meetings with Amanda and the superintendent, Mr. Kamski, in the last two years than his previous six of teaching. And now, Connor is turning onto her cul de sac, forty minutes away from his own home to pick up his partner’s son, who asked specifically for him. 

Only this time they won’t be separated by a desk, a title and the trappings of propriety. This time, Connor’s hair is dishevelled, his sweatpants sag and there are telling marks of...deviancy showing under his decidedly casual clothes.

Mrs. Phillips new home is located in a sleepy suburb that was gentrified about ten years ago. The affordable houses vary only slightly in colour and decorative shutters. 

For a moment, Connor thinks about staying in the car and texting Cole that he’s arrived but dismisses the idea as soon as it occurs to him. He would never let a child leave his house without seeing the parent picking them up in person and horrible or not, Connor can’t imagine Mrs. Phillips being any different in that regard.

The Mrs. Phillips that answers the door is wincing, simpering “Oh, Mr. Anderson I am so sorry, I told Cole not to call this late but, —” until she opens the door wide enough she can really see who’s on the porch and her expression closes. “Oh. I thought Cole would have called his father.”

Connor can feel himself become colder in response, his smile the rote, near mechanical thing he gives especially frustrating parents while at work. The insult is expected, but doesn’t hurt any less for it. There isn’t even anything he can really say back, were he so inclined. Connor isn’t Cole’s father, not truely. Parental figure, maybe. Support system, definitely. But Cole hasn’t made the decision on where Connor fits in their family or what he should be called and it’s not Connor’s place to push for any more than what Cole is willing to give him. “Hello Mrs. Philips, is Cole ready to go?”

“I told him that he was welcome to stay, even if he wanted to sleep in the living room.” She continues, as if Connor hasn’t spoken, her lips compressed into a moue of distaste. “But I should have expected some trouble when Emma wanted to invite him.”

“Excuse me?” Connor asks, possibly too sharply.

Despite the tension between Mrs. Phillips and Connor, Cole has never talked badly about Emma, or Mrs. Phillips. Cole and Emma are very good friends and Connor thought, assumed anyway, that whatever ugliness that existed between the two adults would stay between them and never affect their kids friendship.

For a moment she hesitates, before barrelling on. “I just meant I shouldn’t be surprised to see him put himself above the comfort of others. That —”

“That Cole should remain somewhere he is uncomfortable, under the supervision of an adult who speaks badly of him because to do otherwise would be an implication against you, is that correct?” 

Mrs. Phillips blinks rapidly in surprise. 

“Is Cole ready to go?” Connor hates to repeat himself.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Connor. I’m not sure I feel comfortable releasing a child in my care to someone who is not his legal guardian.” Mrs. Phillips says stiffly, hand tightening on the door that remains in her grip.

Connor refuses — flatly refuses to use his present from Cole this December last as a trump card against someone like Caroline Phillips. “Mrs. Phillips.” Connor over-emphasises ‘Mrs.’ and is gratified to see her expression openly waver. The news of her divorce came to him as second hand gossip between the second grade and fifth grade teachers, and he expected to feel satisfied, or superior — being in a successful relationship while hers fell apart. Instead Connor found himself keeping an closer eye on Emma during his recess supervision shifts for the rest of the year. “So far, I have kept our disagreement from affecting anyone in my family besides myself. If my fiancé, Lieutenant Anderson needs to drive across town to pick up our son because of your prejudices I will not stop him from pursuing the actions he has wanted to take since you first doubted my ability to educate fairly based on my sexuality.”

In the watery orange light of the street lamps, Caroline resembles the goldfish Connor had kept as a class pet before Skateboard McFortnite. Sadly, one of his previous students had disagreed with Connor’s proposed feeding plan for the fish and Boaty McBoatface had died a tragic death.

“Lieutenant Anderson?”

“Of the Detroit police department, yes.” Connor does not like dragging his partner’s credentials out like this, like they are a threat rather than an accomplishment. Hank, he knows, would call it something like ‘using the resources available,’ or ‘being a team player,’ to make the idea more palatable. Or, if his goal was to try and extort a reaction he might call it ‘playing all sides of the field,’ to make the obvious joke about his sexuality.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Phillips, is that my dad?” Cole lisps, not quite used to talking with his adult teeth still growing into his bottom jaw. He drags his overstuffed backpack by it’s tethers into the entryway and Connor just barely refrains from telling Cole to Pick That Up Properly, Please. That isn’t the image he needs to project here.

“Sorry, sweetie. Your dad sent your… Mr. Connor to come and get you.” Caroline says, faux-brightly. “Are you okay with that, or would you like me to call your dad?”

Your real dad, goes unsaid, but heard — by all.

“Mr. Connor is marrying my dad.” Cole says in a challenging tone that reminds Connor so much of Hank that it momentarily takes his breath away. “That makes him my dad too. Can I go home now?”

White lipped and furious, Caroline stands aside, gritting out a good night as Cole walks by. Connor thinks about telling him to say thank you, but manners are not as important as Cole feeling as though he is allowed to leave any situation he finds uncomfortable. That he was right to call.

Bending down, Connor collects the bag Cole continues to doggedly drag behind him and hears Caroline quickly muffle a noise of shock. Glancing down tells Connor all he needs to know and he stands back up, wishing he could stop his body from blushing. He tugs the t-shirt back into place from where it gaped forward, showing off the beautiful pink bra with the soft mesh cups Connor fell in love with when it first appeared in his email more than three months ago. He is not and refuses to be ashamed of being an adult with a healthy and active sex life.

“Good night, Mrs. Phillips.” Connor nods, turning his back on the horrible woman and her ugly, yellow, cookie-cutter home. 

Cole lasts ten minutes, just passing the cheery wooden sign that tells him he is leaving the Phillips’ suburb before he yawns for the first time. He hasn't grown out of the habit of napping in the car, but this time he makes a considerate effort to stay awake; asks for the radio and doesn’t complain about the jazz that rattles around under the rumble of the engine. He plays with the window controls and steals glances at Connor, smiling when he isn’t reprimanded for it.

 

“Thank you for coming to pick me up.”

“Of course. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Cole shrugs, refusing to answer verbally and Connor hesitates. He wants to give Cole the space to organize his thoughts. He’ll open up when he wants to, and not a second before.

Hank says Cole must have learned that particular trait from Connor. According to Hank, Cole’s mother was like him — ‘ _not the type to gather wool for long before her mouth ran away with her._ ’

“Did something happen?” Connor tries to make himself sound casual instead of like a worried parent, or worse, a concerned teacher.

“Is it okay?”

“Is what okay, Cole?” He thinks Cole might be asking if it was okay be called to be picked up, but that seems unlikely. They have made it as clear as possible that Cole can always call them, always ask for help and never has to feel forced into something. That was the point of getting him a phone over the holidays.

“That I called you my dad. I know you’re not really my dad but it’s kind of how I think of you, but it doesn’t have to be, if it makes you uncomfortable. You can just be my Connor and that would be okay.” Cole carefully doesn't look at Connor as he talks, directing most of his speech to the window and the very last sentence to his lap.

Connor flicks the turn signal and moves the car into the right lane before pulling over entirely and parking. He turns to look at Cole, blinking hard to stop himself from crying. “Is that why,” he clears his throat, determined not to waver. “Is that why you gave me adoption papers over the holidays?”

Cole sniffs loudly, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. 

Connor grabs a tissue from the center console and hands it over. He rubs his thumb against the band of his ring. “It was the best present I’ve ever been given.” He says truthfully. Hank knew it too. He whined for a week about being shown up by his own kid.

“I know you love my dad ‘cause you moved in with us and you’re gonna marry him, but you — you never asked me to. Did you want to be my dad?” His voice breaks and he goes back to staring out the window, where he thinks Connor can’t see him cry.

Connor is stunned, frozen, but only for a moment. “Yes. I’ve wanted that very much, for a long time, Cole.”

“You never ask me to call you dad.” Cole hiccups.

“I—” They are edging toward a topic Connor has been very careful to leave to Hank in the last two years. “Where is this coming from, Cole?” He asks instead, offering another tissue as Cole goes to wipe his eyes on his already dirty sleeve. 

Cole grabs his hand and holds on tightly. “They didn’t meant to upset me. Emma was complaining about her mom and her parent’s divorce and then Allen pulled out these stupid old jokes, like ‘your momma’s so fat,’ only everyone kept looking at me like I was going to start crying like a baby because poor Cole, his mom is dead.” 

“I know you must miss her,” Connor starts, slowly and shuts his mouth when Cole shakes his head vigorously, charging on: 

“That isn’t even the point! Yeah, I miss my mom but no one acts like I have two parents. No one calls you my dad, or lets me talk about how awesome you are or believes me when I say I’m psyched you guys are getting married. Not even Emma! And she is my best friend!”

This time, Connor doesn’t interrupt, even if he wants to ask what happened to Devon being Cole’s best friend.

“The kids at school treat me weird. I’m the gay kid or the kid with the dead mom or the teacher’s pet or — like Emma, she talks like I know what having one parent is like and I don’t. Mom only died like, three years ago and then we moved and then my dad met you.” 

The fourth anniversary of her passing is in two months and nineteen days. Connor had thought to ask Hank and Cole if they would like to travel to visit her headstone.

Connor takes a slow, deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Squeezes Cole’s hand in his. “I, we were very careful, that first year.” He starts slowly, not quite a lie but not the whole truth.

And stops. He doesn’t want to lie to Cole. At all. Not about this.

“I lied. We tried to be careful. We tried to set boundaries and be respectful of those boundaries. We thought of you often and how you would be affected by any obvious shift in our relationship.” 

Cole nods, a bare movement of his chin, waiting for Connor to continue. 

“We didn’t always succeed, either at respecting those boundaries or at putting you first.”

“I don’t remember it being bad.” Cole says, a touch defensive.

Connor smiles. “Thank you. I liked your father very much, almost immediately, and he felt the same way about me. And I liked you very much. As our relationship became serious, I began worrying about the way it would affect you. I was worried about becoming a step-parent, about having been your teacher, about how quickly your father and I fell in love.”

Cole nods again, squeezing Connor’s hand back. He’s learned wonderful active listening skills, assuring Connor that he is being heard without interrupting. Pride beats hard against Connor’s ribcage, so hard he can hear it in his eardrums.

“I was also very concerned, that you might feel I was attempting to replace your mother. That I was trespassing, or overstepping my boundaries. In many ways, I am still concerned about that.” He licks his lips. “Afraid. Not concerned. I am afraid of that. You are so important to me, Cole. I love you very much and the last thing I ever want to do is hurt you.”

Cole sniffs hard and fumbles for his seatbelt, clicking it and clamoring over the center console to crush his face into Connor’s stolen hoodie. “I love you, dad.”

Wrapping his arms tight around Cole’s thin shoulders, he presses his lips against the wild, dirty blonde curls that he tries, unsuccessfully to tame most school mornings. There are things Cole is still to young to understand fully. Like the way Niles will shower him in attention but refuses to come over for dinner more than once every three months. How neither of them expected to have a family beyond each other. Shortly after Connor moved in, brushing Cole’s hair in the mornings unofficially became his job, while Hank over brews coffee and lightly toasts Connor’s preferred 12-grain bread. It’s much, much different than his old routine and sometimes the changes still give him pause — there are days it seems impossible he got this lucky and Connor want to, needs to find the words to let Cole know that in a way he can comprehend.

“I love you too, bug.”

Cole’s shoulder’s start to shake and Connor freezes for a moment before he realizes Cole is giggling, his clogged nose making the noise sound wet and horrid. “Ew, don’t call me bug! That’s like if I started calling you Mr. Dad.”

A shiver of discomfort runs up Connor’s spine. “No. Please don’t call me that. I’m not your teacher anymore.”

“What about ‘papa?’”

“No. I’m not old.”

“Daddio?”

“Your dad likes jazz, I don’t.”

“My other dad.” Cole says, proudly.

Connor blinks hard, warmth hitting him hard in the stomach. “Yes, your other dad.” He confirms, drawing away slowly to make sure that Cole hasn’t suffocated in the borrowed sweater. “We should get back to him. He’s probably worried.”

Cole heaves a long, loud sigh, throwing himself back in his seat and reaching for his seatbelt. “He’s gonna make me talk about it. That’s why I wanted you to come get me. You don’t make me talk about things.” He grumps.

“We talked about things just now.” This late at night, there isn’t much traffic at all, which is a blessing when it comes to merging back into their correct lane. “Important things.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t make me talk about it.” 

It’s an important distinction to the nine year old and Connor wonders for a second whether Hank should have gotten Cole a kitten instead of a puppy. He’s heard they can be particular like that. 

Instead, he says “At this junction I honestly couldn’t tell you who he will be more worried about.” 

“Mrs. Phillips really doesn’t like you, huh?”

“No, and the feeling is mutual.” He could add the typical lesson of ‘sometimes you have to work with people you don’t like because that is what is expected of adults,’ but he was Cole’s teacher. Cole made himself work with several kids he wasn’t friends with on projects through the year and Connor heard he had been paired with Hunter in the 3rd Grade/4th Grade three legged race last year and survived the experience.

Cole just hums, his eyes starting to drift shut now that he isn’t laboring under the mistaken idea of Connor’s indifference. Connor taps his ring against the steering wheel, the jazz fading as Cole begins to snore.


End file.
